Begin Anew
by Xipil
Summary: While returning from the Black Gate to the city of Minas-Tirith, Aragorn tries to come to terms with the ending of this era and what that means for both Middle-earth and himself. One-shot.


**Hey guys! I don't know what exactly came over me, but last night I sat down at my computer and this little story idea completely blindsided me. It wouldn't let me sleep until I wrote it down-so here you are!**

 **This story takes place during the Return of the King after the last stand at the Black Gate.**

 **Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE LOTR...for now... ;)**

 **Reviews and constructive criticisms always welcome!**

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He sat atop the majestic horse, his mind far away. The whispers of his men penetrated his thoughts, and Aragorn found his own echoing those of the war-weary soldiers.

 _It was over._

The concept was so foreign to the ranger that he was having a hard time grasping it; after so many decades struggling against the might of Mordor, all the lives lost in defense of the West, the war was over.

The moment when the black tower had collapsed replayed in Aragorn's mind like it was on loop: the Eye of Sauron was vanquished once and for all, his forces scattered and in disarray, and the eagles circling through the sky, the dark shadow dissipating behind them. For a brief moment, Aragorn could have sworn that there was a hand, dim and wreathed with lightning, reaching down toward the company of men. When the first rays of light hit the desolate land, the shadowy form was blown away like dust in the wind, and Aragorn felt a great burden lift from the valley.

 _It was over_.

That was not to say that there were not still battles to be fought—the remaining orcs would need to be hunted down and slayed, the roads had to be made safe, and there was the delicate matter of Aragorn being the heir of Isildur, rightful king of Gondor. But the Shadow in the East was no more, and everything from this moment on would be dealt with in due time, and for that, Aragorn felt lighter than he had since the lord of Rivendell told him of his true heritage.

"Aragorn?" He turned his head and saw Legolas from the corner of his eye. Facing the front again, Aragorn wound his hand further around his horses' reigns, taking comfort from the raw texture of the leather.

"I don't want to talk right now," he intoned, resolutely not looking at the elf and dwarf mounted on the horse behind him. He couldn't exactly say why he didn't want to speak to them—when they had been through so much together—but he was still trying to make something out of the mess of emotions raging within him. There was a hollow space inside him; he was still having a hard time convincing himself that the war was over. He really didn't have to worry about Middle-earth's impending doom anymore—or at least, for a very, _very_ long time.

A hand on his shoulder—Legolas sent him a small smile of understanding as he urged the horse to the front of the column, Gimli sitting directly behind him with an expression that one could call empathetic. Aragorn nodded his thanks; he just needed some time to think.

Unfortunately, time was not on his side; after coming around the bend the white citadel of Minas-Tirith loomed in front of the company. Sighing through his nose, Aragorn made out the collapsed sections of the great walls and towers, the main gates that were mangled by the orcs and their war machines, the siege towers that still leaned against the outer wall. "My lord," a voice called from behind, and Aragorn turned to see Imrahil riding toward him. "Do you wish to go into the city?"

Aragorn looked up at the ancient city, the white stone almost glowing in the light of the mid-day sun. His eyes roamed to the base, outside where used to be the main gate, where a small collection of tents could be made out. Although Aragorn had arrived before making what he thought to be a suicide march to the black gate, he had not stepped foot inside the city—for political reasons. Even now, Aragorn was reluctant to enter what was his by birthright, and he realized that he just needed a few minutes to himself. Looking back at the waiting Imrahil, Aragorn replied, "I do—but I need to take care of some business first." Giving him a knowing look, Imrahil respectfully inclined his head before steering his steed away from the future king.

When he made it to the campsite, Aragorn dismounted and turned so he was facing the east. Although he could no longer see it, he envisioned the barren valley and the shadow giving way to the new light.

 _It was over._

The full implications of this finally hit Aragorn, and he felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

A soldier wandered over in concern. "My lord, are you alright?"

Nodding, Aragorn breathed, "Yes—yes, I'm fine." Face turned toward the brightening sky, he continued, "More than fine, actually."

Following his gaze, the soldier absently smiled. "We won." Softly laughing, he shook his head and went to help his companions with their gear.

Staying where he was, Aragorn echoed the soldier, and whispered, "We won." A ghost of a smile flitted over his face, before he was overcome with sheer emotion. He barely made it to the tent before his legs gave out and he fell to his knees in the dirt and dust, tears streaming down his face. He thought of Frodo, Sam, the fallen Theoden king, his love Arwen Evenstar, the might of Boromir, son of the Steward, loyal at the end. The world had changed—whether it was for better or for worse, he supposed they would soon find out; but in that moment, it seemed that the world had been purged of a great evil, and now that the canker had been removed the wounds it had suffered would finally be able to heal.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that: his tears watering the ground, head bent over, hands facing the sky. In the solitude of the tent, Aragorn let out all of the joy, stress, rage, relief, and grief that he had kept bottled inside of him since the moment the Ring bearer had passed through Bree pursued by the Nazgul.

When he finally stood, he pushed back the flap of the tent and stepped out to view the sun setting over Mount Mindolluin. Footsteps behind him; Legolas approached, walking lightly as only an elf could. "Beautiful, isn't is?" Legolas remarked, standing to Aragorn's right. "For men, it is a reminder that they do not live forever, and their days are limited. To elves, the setting of the sun represents the end, only to be followed by its rising, and a new beginning." Glancing at Aragorn, still watching the sun set, his lips quirked upward. "I think we're going to like this beginning." With that, Legolas touched a slender hand to Aragorn's shoulder and walked back the way he came.

Aragorn looked on as the last sliver of the day disappeared behind the mountain. It was over; the day was done.

A new day was starting—a new age. And Aragorn couldn't help but think that Legolas spoke true.


End file.
